


I have never loved

by cherphobium



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Flash Fic, Hurt, M/M, Story: The Adventure of the Three Garridebs, alternative ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 12:49:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20507282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherphobium/pseuds/cherphobium
Summary: Alternative ending for The Three Garridebs: What would've happen if...?





	I have never loved

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to use Arthur Conan Doyle's words for the beginning/canonical part.  
Thanks @consulting-nerd-of-many-things for beta-ing this!

_I have never loved, Watson, but if I did and if the woman I loved had met such an end, I might act even as our lawless lion-hunter has done. Who knows?_

_The Adventure of the Devil's Foot_

That hour was not long in striking. Holmes and Watson crouched closer in the shadow as they heard the outer door open and shut. Then came the sharp, metallic clink! of a key, and the American was in the room. He closed the door softly behind him, took a quick glance around him to see that all was safe, threw off his overcoat, and walked up to the central table with the brisk manner of one who knows exactly what he must do and how to do it. He pushed the table to one side, tore up the square of carpet on which it rested, and rolled it completely back. Then, drawing a jemmy from his inside pocket, he knelt and worked vigorously upon the floor. Presently they heard sliding boards, and an instant later an opening appeared between the planks. Killer Evans struck a match, lit a stump of candle, and vanished from their view.

Clearly their moment had come. Holmes touched his companion's wrist as a signal, and together they stole across to the open trap-door. Gently as they moved, however, the old floor must have creaked under their feet, for the head of the American, peering anxiously round, emerged from the open space. His face turned upon them with a glare of baffled rage, which gradually softened into a rather shamefaced grin as he realized that two pistols were pointed at his head.

“Well, well!” said he coolly as he scrambled to the surface. “I guess you have been one too many for me, Mr. Holmes. Saw through my game, I suppose, and played me for a sucker from the first. Well, sir, I hand it to you. You have me beat and—”

In an instant he had whisked out a revolver from his breast and had fired two shots. There was a crash as Holmes's pistol came down on the man's head, who was soon sprawled upon the floor with blood running down his face. When Holmes finished rummaging him for weapons, he put his wiry arms around the doctor and led him to a chair.

“You're not hurt, Watson? For God's sake, say that you are not hurt!”

It was worth a wound—it was worth many wounds—to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. The clear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. The doctor put his hand to his chest to stop the blood stream while keeping his eyes fixed upon Holmes. For this was the one and only time he caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain. All his years of humble but single-minded service culminated in that moment of revelation. He tried to articulate words but was only able to move his lips around the name of his partner. His other hand, shaking, approached Holmes's cheek and caressed it. 

Finally, his strength collapsed. Both his arm and the sparkle in his eyes dropped.

The American was sitting up with a dazed face when he observed Holmes turning around. If he said he had seen this new man before, he'd be lying. Two spots full of rage pierced his skin in the middle of the dark, and they burned enough to discern the rictus of pain on his pressed lips. His face transformed into a grimace wild and violent enough to let him know the mistake he had commited..

Before he could react, Holmes drew his revolver again and without hesitation shot Killer Evans twice in the forehead.

  
The Baker Street rooms were filled in the next days with bouquets of all kinds of flowers. The sweet aroma soon turned into nausea after reading their cards. What was the purpouse of keeping alive orchids if the armchair was always empty? Holmes threw the bouquets to the fire as soon as  
they arrived.  
The notebooks and notes of Dr. Watson still laid on his desk, all scattered in a way only a lazy man can display. The sight of a badly closed ink bottle was enough for him to want to throw himself into the fire as well. He wasn't able to remove the pile of newspapers which his doctor had been reading a few days ago. In fact, he didn't believe he would be ever capable of doing it.

He lost his appetite, his desire for sleep, and even track of time. There were days when a constant seven percent solution helped him to get through. Other days, it was the remorse of doing it. There were also those days in which the few hours of rest he obtained at night, thanks to falling asleep or rather for losing consciousness, served him only to enter the main room shouting "Watson, if you'd be so kind to...”  
He had no kind of remorse those days.

Sherlock Holmes continued for many years using his powers of deduction for the most extraordinary and specially dangerous cases. Nevertheless, there is no record of any of them.

**Author's Note:**

> I never imagined I'd do this to Watson (and Holmes) in my first SH work. In my defense I'll say the determination of the mind at 4am knows no bounds.


End file.
